


It Never Happened

by lounaskolo



Category: Toward the Terra
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 20:21:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14678784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lounaskolo/pseuds/lounaskolo
Summary: Matsuka telepathically overhears someone fantasizing about him and Keith having sex. Because come on, someone had to have been thinking it.Kinkmeme prompt.





	It Never Happened

**Author's Note:**

> So there's this ancient Toward the Terra kinkmeme that I stumbled across some years ago, in my desperate need for more Terra content. I found the above prompt, started writing this back then, and now, after recently rewatching the series yet again, dusted the story off and actually finished. Any and all feedback/comments/signs of life from fellow Toward the Terra fans are greatly appreciated.

 

  
He's standing silent vigil by the door of Keith's office when he catches the first drift of the thought. His flinch goes unnoticed: Keith is too busy tracking all the possible warp routes the Mu could've used to flee.

 

For four days now they’ve been abroad Endymion, hurtling farther and farther away from where the Megiddo burned away Silvester 7, and it’s been two days since the violent fever finally let up and allowed Matsuka back on duty. So far duty has consisted of playing fetch with endless cups of coffee and faithfully  following in Keith’s wake, lest the conflicted murmurs of the other National Knights tip over to a confrontation. Whenever he passes Serge, he can feel the glare on his back and the others, though less personally affronted, are no better: during the coffee runs he's walked into several aborted conversations and the silence afterward is deafening.

 

It is also comforting, in a way. Familiar, expected, when nothing else is. The crew neither likes nor understands his presence. He’s used to that. Soon enough they’ll learn to ignore him.

 

He hopes.

 

With Keith, it’s different. They adore – no. They revere Keith. 

 

Yet this thought that has snuck up on him now – this isn't reverence. 

 

Or at least not the type of reverence he's already growing used to, the kind that happens behind Keith's back in exalted whispers, the buzz that zaps through the crew whenever Keith enters the bridge. Those feelings Matsuka basks in on, whenever he dares, and though Keith always appears unmoved, Matsuka can’t help but hope some of that warmth still reaches him, somehow, and helps soothe what Matsuka glimpsed as he wrapped his arms around Keith and pulled him away from the Megiddo.

 

No. This is something else.

 

At first, it's nothing but a gentle brush against the soft peripherals of his awareness; touch as light as the tickle of hair against cheek. That alone makes it unusual. The Knights are an elite group. Like Keith, they've been taught to shield and they obey even when they do not know what they're shielding against, even out here with only Endymion and its crew, even when they're at rest. This is what makes them Elites. Matsuka is slowly growing used to the impression of cold walls whenever his mind slips from under his control; if nothing else, it allows him peace from the details of exactly what they think of him. The shields are a good thing, he’s decided.

 

This thought isn’t shielded.

 

Maybe one of them has fallen asleep and is in the throes of an unintended dream – Matsuka hopes – but no. It's not dreaming, it's too focused, too insistent, the way it pushes against his mind, tries to rub its way in. That is also how he knows it must be one of the Knights: the thoughts of regular crewmembers are never this forceful, this sharp.

 

Keith told him not to use his powers. Keith told him there would be no second time. But he can't help it – his power is in part passive, always lying in wait, and there are so many thoughts to prey on he can't always force his focus elsewhere in time.

 

This is one of those times.

 

He's trying, but before he can breathe in and picture an impenetrable bubble around his mind he's already riding along and the image slides in: Keith, his uniform uncharacteristically disheveled, back pressed against a wall, one hand tracing his chest and the other, the other is down lower, sliding under where his pants are undone – 

 

Matsuka shudders and desperately gathers at his shields. A fiery flush blooms up his chest, suffusing his face, like his blood's thick with hot oil. It must be a dream, a daydream – something like it – because it can't be a memory. Keith would never, could never let himself do that, let himself be pulled under by those crude animal instincts humanity should've graduated a long time ago. Hollow, fleeting, pointless, as Mother taught it, a selfish distraction when their energy should always be united under the dream of Terra.

 

Mother is right. 

 

Matsuka shudders again.

 

Keith still hasn't turned around, still hasn't reacted even when Matsuka's heart pounds so loud Keith must hear it, that thump–thump–thump that reverberates in his too–tiny chest. He tries again to guard against it but the images wash over him anyway, seep through were his concentration cracks: the rustle of the heavy uniform coat, the clink of a belt buckle, the puffs of air through parted pale lips, the sweat–moistened forehead with the ink–black hair plastered against it, the heady scent of sweat... Matsuka's eyes are closed, his hands in tight fists. Focus somewhere else, on someone else – but the only mind nearby is Keith's, and if he grasps at Keith's mind... Keith always wears his gun at ready and his mood is already dark –

 

Slowly, quietly, Matsuka breathes out. Distraction. He needs a distraction. Whose are these thoughts? Not Serge's, definitely not, and not Wogg’s– for a sweet moment his thoughts halt.

 

The rest of them – he doesn't know their names.

 

He hadn’t realized.

 

”If you're sick again, go to the medical bay.”

 

He almost jumps at Keith's voice. ”I – I'm – it's nothing,” he mumbles, and looks down, at his stiff new boots. Hidden from view even his toes are tingling. Sweat gathers at the dip of his collarbones, at the back of his neck. The images are still coming – now the clothing's being stripped off and it's all bare smooth skin, cold eyes turned fantasy–warm and – it's not real, it's not real, it's not real; it's wrong, an invasion of privacy –

 

And Keith's looking at him over his shoulder, eyes glinting in the glow of the hologram map. ”If you want to lie, learn to do it better, Matsuka.” His voice is cold. ”But of course, deception is in your very nature, isn't it?”

 

Matsuka opens his mouth to deny – but then thinks better of it. He's starting to learn Keith and his moods, the odd void surrounding him that nevertheless helps Matsuka navigate around the most dangerous pitfalls. This stillness is one of them, the sharp gaze just waiting to be baited. Keith's frustrated with himself, with Captain Murdoch – how he let the surviving Mu slip away. With Matsuka, for what happened – or didn't happen – at the Megiddo. He's itching for a target. It's not a game Matsuka particularly wants to play. Even if it's starting to prove the only failsafe way to engage Keith's attention.

 

At least it compels Matsuka's thoughts away from the – imagined sounds and sensations –

 

He fumbles for something to divert them both. ”What... will we do next?” is what comes out, and immediately he wishes he could take it back. There is no 'we'.

 

Keith agrees. ”Whatever I need to. And you –” His mouth thins. It's the kind of expression Captain Murdoch wore often, only a smile in name. ”You will remain at hand, in case I find use for your... abnormalities.”

 

There's nothing to do but nod. It's what he expected – hoped for. It's better than what would happen should Keith hand him over to be dealt by the System. Better than quietly dimming out at Soleid. At least – at least this way, he'll be preoccupied with something other than counting down the years, months, days. He can be useful. For once. Even if it's just serving coffee and standing in wait, until...

 

At least this way he'll see it coming. Already he has an emerging grasp on the how and a vague idea for the when.

 

With a start, Matsuka realizes the images are no longer there: his awareness is settled again. Empty. He waits for the sense of relief. What he feels instead is cold. It's the sweat drying against his back, his body winding down back to normal, he knows. He shivers regardless.

 

Keith has gone back to studying the map.

 

”Should I get more coffee?” Matsuka asks, after an eternity of silence.

 

He chooses to take Keith's lack of answer as a yes.

  
  
  


*

  
  


Against all odds, after a few repeat offenses, the other Knights fantasizing about Keith ceases to phase him.

 

It doesn't happen often – thankfully – but when it does... maybe he's good at learning by example because he can now maintain a mostly unaffected facade through it. It's easier when he focuses on the falseness of it and keeps instead his eyes on the real Keith, against whom the pull of the fantasies dissolve like waves breaking on jagged shore.

 

Routine, inevitably, settles in.

 

They move from galaxy to galaxy, smothering rebellions, rooting out dissent. He walks in Keith's shadow, does whatever Keith tells him to, doesn't speak unless spoken to, keeps to himself whenever he's not needed. A blessing in disguise, really: no–one has even noticed he can no longer look half of the Knights in the eye.

 

All in all, it's surprisingly anticlimactic. The only thing that separates this from his life at the Education Station and then later on Soleid is he now has a name for his monstrosity, and that the awareness of it is no longer only his but shared between him and Keith.

 

What he feels is not happiness – not even contentment, the constant anxiety keeps him in check – but they are now tied together, and from now until the end there'll be something anchoring him against that long–familiar feeling of teetering above an abyss. He thinks it's an improvement. That it could maybe be enough.

 

The others are bolder. They want more than to exist.

 

They can think of Keith not with fright but with admiration, appreciation, aspiration, and it bleeds through to their dreams, and Matsuka shuts it off and curls into himself and thinks of nothing at all and it doesn't bother him.

 

It doesn't.

 

Not until one afternoon, when he's in the middle of pouring coffee and carefully savoring the half–distracted 'please' Keith tacked on after his demand, and he's so preoccupied with the foolish hope it could mean something he lets his guard down.

 

Which means he gets the full brunt of the thoughts with no warning.

 

He starts so badly the hot coffee splashes over the rim and onto his hand. A crash, and there's coffee and shards on the floor. Matsuka doesn't notice: his mouth is open, dry. He feels dizzy.

 

”– and next time, if the Major Colonel – hey!” Serge's next to him in two quick steps. He radiated aggravation before; now it's full–blown ire. Matsuka tries to take refuge in it, but –

 

He doesn't see the way Serge takes the coffee pot from his hands and sets it aside. Neither does he hear Serge call his name again, then snap his fingers in front of Matsuka's face when there's no response.

 

What he sees instead is – wrong, so wrong – not just misguided but an outright delusion. He sees – himself, and Keith, and – it would never. Keith would never. And yet... He sees himself, stepping into Keith's office, and instead of him setting the coffee down and drawing back he sees –

 

Matsuka tries to shake it off, tries to block it out but he's never been very good at anything.

 

– Keith no longer sitting behind his desk but caging Matsuka against the wall, and the way he's looking at Matsuka is not calculating and not disdainful but hot, molten, with undercurrents of that same dark satisfaction when witnessing Silvester 7's annihilation –

 

Somewhere far away, his fingers are red, scalded raw. Serge's still trying to get his attention. It's all insignificant background noise.

 

They're kissing.

 

Keith has his hand on the back of Matsuka's head to tangle with his hair. Matsuka's head is tilted up, he's standing straight, surging up and against Keith eagerly, easily, like it's nothing at all, like it's the most natural thing in the world, and Keith not only doesn't push him away – no, he's drawing Matsuka closer, until they're moulded into each other's empty spaces, sharing a breath, like they could in some ineradicable way melt into each other.

 

Matsuka can’t stop shivering.

 

He's flushed with cold sweat. It's – It's wrong. Keith would never allow for such a thing. He'd abhor the very notion. If he knew... Matsuka can't stop himself from picturing the way Keith would sneer at him; what he'd say about weakness and grotesque perversion and repulsive impulses. How it'd hang between them afterward, a corrosive stain eating through the fragile web tying them together.

 

And – Matsuka doesn't even think of Keith like that. Of course he doesn't! He'd never subject Keith to – he knows better than – The thought has never even crossed his mind. Whatever Keith says about the Mu and their savageness – Matsuka's not like that. Will never be, no matter how Keith baits him for proof. He will prove Keith wrong, he won’t be like that, it’s the one thing he can do – what he's seeing right now has nothing to do with reality –

 

”Matsuka?”

 

Still, even only that someone would think it – it's not right. It's – it's even less right than the ones about Keith by himself. Those were unlikely – misguided, inaccurate – but this...

 

This is so beyond impossible it makes Matsuka feel vaguely ill. Those images aren't his but it still feels like he's transgressing. Why would anyone – haven't they seen the way Keith looks at him? Because Keith does not look at him with hooded eyes and sly smiles and he'd never, ever slowly tease down Matsuka's uniform zipper just to slip his hand inside...

 

And he's standing in a puddle of cooling coffee and Serge's hand is on his shoulder and he's being shaken and his head is empty.

 

”Oi. What is wrong with you? If you have to have an episode don't do it in the middle of the break room –”

 

Matsuka's face is hot. His breaths are harsh gulps. Everything is too clingy and warm. ”I – I'm sorry,” he says, ”I was –”

 

”Completely out of it. You need to go get your hand treated,” Serge says, then gestures at the floor. ”And somebody needs to clean this up.”

 

”I will! I'll just –” He's already edging towards where the cleaning supplies are kept. His heart won't stop thumping.

 

”Weren't you in the middle of doing something?”

 

”Yes, I –”

 

”The Major Colonel? His coffee? Ring any bells? You think he'll appreciate having to wait around while you mop that up? Just call in the crew to handle it, tell them you have more important things to do.” Serge's frustration feels like pinpricks. ”You do realize what uniform you're wearing, right?”

 

…He has to concede Serge's got a point. There's already amused whispering at his lack of proper duties. He nods. ”I'll just make another cup, then.” He hesitates, then adds, cautiously: ”Senior Lieutenant Starjon.”

 

”Serge is fine. And don't be stupid, you have to take care of your hand or it'll blister and you'll be completely useless.”

 

”No, it's fine, I'll do the coffee first and then –”

 

”How did you ever even manage to graduate?” Serge grabs his arm and pulls him to the first aid kit stashed behind a wall panel. ”Come here and be glad I'm on a break...” He grumbles under his breath as he rinses out then coats Matsuka's hand in generous amounts of W005. His mind is sharp and clear.

 

Matsuka rests his own against it and tries to steady himself, soak in that focus. His legs are numb. His throat is dry.

 

His eyes burn.

 

When he finally serves the coffee Keith glances at his bandaged hand but doesn't say a word.

  
  


*

  
  


After the final dismissal that marks the end of his day, Matsuka strips off his uniform and steps into the shower.

 

He thinks of Keith not gently undoing his jacket but yanking it open, Keith leaning close not for kissing but for scorn – he thinks of that flood of shame and futile anger and how it felt to have Keith’s throat in his hands, and how he’d been warm beneath Matsuka’s body, how there’d been nothing cold or machinelike about his strong wild pulse beating into Matsuka’s palms, how his eyes had dared –

 

Warm water pours over him. It rushes in his ears. Eyes closed, head tilted up, it shuts out the outside world.

 

He can still feel it.

 

Keith’s eyes. Hot. Cold. Hot. His hands, how easily he’d closed one over Matsuka’s forearm. The distance between them. The lack of it.

 

Despite his best efforts, his hands wander.

 

Afterward, the guilt is so deep it feels like drowning.

  
  


*

  
  


He shouldn't feel guilty. It's not his fault.

 

It's – it's because of Keith, how he sometimes abandons his men and only takes Matsuka along. It breeds idle speculation, gossip – space travel is boring, there's no avoiding it, everyone knows it'll inevitably come to be – and there's nothing Matsuka can do to ward it off so it can't be his fault –

  
  


He thinks this as he watches Keith’s back while walking behind him, he thinks of it as he hands Keith his coffee. He keeps thinking of it when Keith gives out his commands and the Knights jump to action while Matsuka simply stands by.

 

He doesn’t belong. Everyone knows it. It’s only natural they’d be curious, and the lack of answers cultivates ideas, and the ideas take a life of their own –

 

Keith must know it. He must be aware of the possibility. Or maybe – probably – the idea is too outlandish to even occur to him. Matsuka considers. That must be it.

 

It’s not Keith’s fault, either.

 

Of course, none of it would happen if he weren't a monster requiring constant surveillance. Keith is still the only one who knows, and it falls on Keith to carry the other end of the leash. So maybe, in the end, it is his fault. He would try to dissuade the world from the notion, but that would mean acknowledging it out loud and – he can't go there.

 

He tries to stop dwelling on it. Instead, he trains his mind: learns how to empty it, learns how to focus on nothing but his own breathing. Sometimes it’s not enough, and then he’ll try and recall the pain from Keith’s stun gun and the reddened mark it left on his skin, and how it burned and chafed under his clothes, even after the ointment.

 

It keeps his head clear.

 

That doesn’t mean he can escape the other, more insidious effects.

 

*

 

He’s dreaming.

 

He knows it’s a dream because there are windows with an open sky beyond, with warm golden sunlight pouring inside the room and he’s laying on a soft bed with soft bedding and it’s warm, so warm.

 

Keith is beside him. His head rests against Matsuka’s chest. He’s bare; all of what Matsuka can see. His breathing is soft and steady as it ghosts upon Matsuka’s skin.

 

Matsuka can’t see his face yet he knows: Keith is sleeping.

 

He cards his fingers through Keith’s hair, slowly, softly, feeling out for tangles before his fingers can snag and pull. There are none. He does it again.

 

Again.

 

When Matsuka wakes up, he smothers his face into his pillow and wants to curse, wants to purge his mind, tear it out, wants to forget anything and everything he’s glimpsed on others’ minds, both the lies and the truth.

 

Wants to go back to sleep.

 

*

 

They’ll be going to Noah, next. For Keith to accept his position at Parthenon. It’ll be dangerous; Keith has amassed many enemies.

 

The Mu are on the move, too.

 

Matsuka watches Keith make his plans for them, and he knows whatever they are, they will be swift and effective and utterly merciless.

 

Keith still barely glances at him when Matsuka offers him coffee. Nothing has changed. Maybe nothing will ever change. Matsuka is trying hard to reject that thought, but it’s been a year. More than. Keith may have been enough for him, but he may not be enough for Keith.

 

What a deluded idea, he thinks. How could he be.

 

But oh, despite it all, deep, deep down – he wishes. After all, the only one it ever hurts is himself.

  
  



End file.
